Seers (4 page)

I had never felt such intense burning. I pinched my eyes closed, but that only added a dull aching in my head to the burn.

I Navigate with my eyes open. I stare into the eye of my target, feel myself—my soul, I guess—surge up through my body, foamy and frothy and whirling like cotton candy around the dome as it’s tricked into spinning around the maker’s stick. Only I flow out and into the eye I have chosen. In and down, starting at the most recent layer and traveling as far as I need to go. When I have to leave, I head back up the layers. When I reach the edge of the top layer, I close my eyes, and I am out.

I can’t get past the burning because I am human, despite my abilities, and when you keep your eyes open too long, they burn. I can’t close my eyes once I am in unless I’m at the top layer and touching the barrier. It’s why my time is limited once I am in. It had never been a problem before. I could leave whenever I wanted. I would just go in, find out some things, surf around, and leave. But in Jennifer’s brain, when I knew I had to find something, to fix someone, to take something out, the hazard of damaging my eyes in the process because I stayed in too long was the price I would pay until I could master the skill and get faster.

“What the …? Oh, my God!” Jennifer was shrieking, and she and Sharon were spitting a string of incoherent half questions at me in pitches higher than I had ever heard their voices reach.

I just wanted them to shut up long enough for me to finish nursing my eyes. I was rubbing them, but it wasn’t helping. I wasn’t ready to open them. I was scared to open them. If they were burning this badly closed, could I bear to expose them to the air again?

“Leesie! What is wrong with you? Oh, God! You’re
bleeding
!”

The crazed tone of Sharon’s voice cut through the pain, and her stupid, high-pitched whining thrust me back to the moment. I pulled my hands away from my eyes and jerked them open. The first thing I saw was a red haze. Was I still in? This was the same haze from the last few layers of Jennifer. As my vision cleared and my eyes adjusted, I saw the outline of my fingers and the blood that was on them. Not red haze. Blood. What was bleeding? My
eyes
were bleeding? I had known time was limited. I had experienced bloodshot eyes and soreness that would persist even hours after I’d been in, but blood? I knew I had pushed it. And now I knew that working through the pain would get me nothing but two bloody eyes.

“Will you two shut up!” I have such a delicate way with people when they are emotional.

“Just get me a wet paper towel or something and stop screaming already! I’m fine!”

“Fine?” Sharon’s voice was still pinched and squeaky. “Fine? Your eyes are bleeding!”

“I am aware of that. Thanks.”

Talking to them with my eyes closed and pinned behind bloody fingers while I waited for the wet paper towel was annoying me enough that I knew I had to watch what I said. I was two seconds from telling these two exactly where to stick it. And where was that
paper towel
?

Paper towel ripping. Water running. Finally.

“Here!” Sharon sounded wounded. And angry… . Was she angry? Great. Now I had to sound soothing and appreciative of all the concern. Who was bleeding here? Why must I cater to the frailty of the emotional gauges of others?

“Thanks. I’m okay. Really. I’m sorry. This just happens sometimes. It’s no big deal,” I said, thinking ahead as I was speaking. “Uh, I have enlarged blood vessels in my eyes. I was … born with it. Sometimes it flares up. Dry days … .”

Was today a dry day?

“Too cold, too hot, if I get a fever. Tons of triggers for it.” I had better just leave the causes for spontaneous eye bleeding open-ended.

“You never told me,” a miniature version of Sharon’s voice piped in. She was hurt.

“I know. It’s just weird to talk about. I guess I hoped you’d never see it.” This softened her. I was attempting to get her to pity me for being a freak. It worked.

“No, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry you have to go through this! Does it hurt?”

Sharon really was so much nicer than I am. But this was dragging on. I had to know what my pulling Mommy Dearest out of Jennifer’s darkest moment in her most negative layer was going to do.

“It hurts. Yes. Let’s just sit down. Jennifer, can you bring me a glass of water and maybe the popcorn over?” I was baiting her. Would she wait on us? Would she hand Sharon food without saying anything, or would she bail out of here as quickly as possible?

“Yeah, of course! I can’t believe this. I’ve never heard of anything like this happening to anyone. How many times has this happened to you?” Her eyes were wide with concern. She put the glass in front of me, the popcorn in front of Sharon, and sat down in the chair next to her sister. She reached her hand into the popcorn bowl as Sharon’s hand slipped in. They bumped knuckles as they each grabbed a handful. I couldn’t see much through a thinning, though still present, red haze, but I could see changes. Definite changes. I could change brains.

I come out of this memory and change lanes, shifting to the right to turn onto Girard Avenue. I parallel park my truck on the side street that flanks the headquarters. The enormity of what I discovered the day I Navigated Jennifer is sprawled out in my head. Before I turn the handle to the building’s side door, I pull my shoulders back and take a deep breath, attempting to clear my head or at least to tidy it. I tuck the Jennifer memory to the side so that I can focus on the current state of my brain and on what Tobias will lay out for me today.

My daily meetings and first week at Alsinboro Academy go quickly and without incident. I cause little stir, which is my main priority. Not only do I not like gushing or probing attention, but I can’t afford it. If I am to have a successful mission, I must blend in and form the necessary friendships.

Ryan is not necessary, but he is a welcome companion. In the span of a week, he has served as a study partner, lunch buddy, and hallway companion. His brain is so sharp. I can only estimate his IQ or what he would look like inside if I Navigated him, but I am sure his intellect would be among the highest I have seen. I was not surprised to meet someone of Ryan’s intelligence at a high school for the intellectually gifted.

Alsinboro Academy is located in Preston, New Jersey, a mini-city about fifteen miles south of Philadelphia. Up to this point I have been handling only city missions. The city offers a constant stirring up that I find comforting. It mirrors my ever-changing lifestyle. With each new mission comes a new school, new group of friends, new conquest. With each section of Philly comes a new style. The storefronts change from brick colonials and brownstones, to the Liberty Bell and Betsy Ross’s House, to glass and metal structures that scream space-age technology. I see familiar faces on certain streets, of course, but that isn’t the focus in a big city. The focus is on the location, the action, the culture. Small suburbs focus on the family.

I had shuddered at the thought of suburbia. How could I go from the progressive hustle of the city to the uptight manicured lawns of South Jersey? I thought of weeping cherry trees on streets named Poplar Drive or Evergreen Avenue or Progress Boulevard (all actual names of streets near the academy). I thought of soccer moms and kids walking the dog, family bike rides down to the lake (of course there’s a neighborhood lake, complete with ducks and a fountain, a walking bridge, and people fishing and kayaking). I thought of neighborhood picnics, the farm stand in town, and the fact that families would be old Preston families, staying generation after generation. What kind of spell does South Jersey cast? No one seems to move out of here. They certainly continue to move in, though.

Case in point: me. Because of the academy’s reputation, the town is fairly used to newcomers, transfer students in search of a résumé builder. Had I been going to the public high school, my arrival would have raised more curiosity. What street do you live on? Play any sports? Drama club, maybe? What do your parents do? Are they interested in joining the historical society? I would be seen as a soon-to-be Preston lifer, instead of a smart kid making a pit stop before college.

Still, I’m sure everyone wonders why a student would change schools senior year, but no one has asked yet. Of course I have my answers ready to go. Tobias always provides me with a tight backstory. To me, Tobias is my Preceptor. To the world, he is my legal guardian, and he handles all of the necessary arrangements as I transfer from school to school. My missions primarily take place in high schools. After this school year I’ll graduate to college and university locations and wherever I can phase in as a new entry-level hire. My missions usually take time because I have to form relationships, enough to know what it is I need to take out with me before I can effectively Navigate. I have to know the beings well enough to know the root of their emotional or psychological weakness. In other words, I must study the movements of my prey before I attack.

Today I will make contact with my target. She is in two of my classes: European history and studio art. Studio art is mingling-friendly and offers plenty of chances to strike up conversation. I have it at the end of the day. I muddle through note-taking, theorems, an author study on Elizabeth Gaskell, and lunch with Ryan and a few others from English class. Finally, art.

She’s sitting at a four-seater table near the middle of the room. Ironic, I think. She’s the middle of everything, it seems. She’s not too smart to be approachable. She’s not on the bottom rung, though. She’s involved in theater but not as the lead. She’s on the math and science panel that competes in academic bowls around the country; she puts on a solid show but doesn’t carry the team. She is beautiful, but not in an off-putting way. She’s even average height. Thin but not too thin. Hair medium length.
Come on, man. What sets you apart?
She’s half Japanese. I guess there’s that. But this is a pretty diverse school, so even that doesn’t do much to single her out. I have a bio on her. I’ve done my homework, but all I know is her demographic. Everything else I need I will get only when I can convince her to trust me.

We’re in the middle of a project, so everyone is walking around, gathering supplies, and picking up where they left off the day before. She has her paints in front of her and seems to be studying her piece, asking it what to do next.

“Eri?”

She looks up at me, slowly, painfully taking her eyes away from her work. I can see it won’t be easy to get her to talk.

“Yes?”

“Hi. I’m Leesie. Do you mind if I set up here?” It’s not a conspicuous request, considering that there are no unoccupied tables left. And since I’m new, my table hopping won’t raise any red flags. She’ll assume that I am searching for the location in the room that best fosters my creative genius or something.

“Hi. Uh, sure. No problem.” She smiles at me to convince me further that she is willing to share and slides her paints and brushes to her left. I sit across from her. Since we’re still in the set-up-and-decide-what-to-do stage, this may be my only opportunity to talk.

“So do you live in town?” Lame. But at least it requires an answer.

“Huh? Oh, yes. I do. On Delaware Ave. Right down the street. You? Did you just move to town?”

I know the sprawling homes right down the street. The stone and brick homes with wrap-around front porches, canvas awnings, and slate walkways.

“No. I commute. From the city.”

Short, clipped answers. I have to trick her into thinking she initiated this conversation. Leave her wanting the information.

“The city! That’s a drive. And the traffic! How long does it take you to get here?” I can see I have become at least moderately interesting to her.

“Twenty minutes with no traffic. With traffic? An hour was the longest so far.”

“Wow. Well, you better get the most of the education, I guess. If you’re gonna fight the traffic to get here.” There’s an “I have to get to work” tone to her voice that warns me this may be all I get today. I can’t leave it at general politeness, though, because too many days of that and she labels me an acquaintance for good. I’m supposed to be making this girl my closest friend. I’ve got to get into her house. I’ve got to get into her head.

“I’m sure I will. Do
you
think you are?”

Direct questions that not only ask someone’s opinion but also require self-assessment and self-discovery are uncommon, come by surprise, and are usually intriguing. It’s not every day that someone asks how you are being directly affected by something in your life. I usually get asked about the weather.

“Do I think I’m getting a good enough education? Um … wow. I think so. I mean, yeah. The teachers are great. It’s all AP, so we’ll have plenty of college credits when we graduate. And the academy has a strong reputation … if we want to go to an Ivy League.” She fidgets in her seat.

Such a politically correct answer. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the next Miss America.

“But you,” I say, continuing to probe her, “do you think you’ll look back and know that you got everything you could get out of high school when you had the chance? Do you think we can know something like that as we sit in the moment?”